We cleared up our whale as soon as we could. He made only thirty-three barrels, and we laid our course for the Cape with a total of three hundred and thirty-five barrels of oil in the hold. That seemed very little to show for nine months’ work, but Peter comforted me somewhat. He did not seem to mind. It was all in the day’s work to him.

“I know, Timmie, lad,” he said. “Whales have got scarce as hen’s teeth in the Atlantic Ocean. But the whaling fleet’s not what it was fifteen years ago when there were over three hundred vessels hailing from New Bedford. Give the whales thirty years or so, and they ’ll be back there. We ’ll find plenty on the New Zealand grounds or off Japan, or some other nice quiet place. We ’ll have a full ship yet, but it may take us three years more.”

The fact that we had little oil to show did not bother me very much. I would have kept on with a contented spirit if we had not had any oil. It was not for a few barrels of oil that I had embarked on this cruise.

We followed the course of the Battles, not because it was her course, but because it was the quickest way to get to the Cape. The wind held for some days in the southeast, so that we headed a little west of south; then it hauled to the westward, and into the northwest, blowing hard. That was just what we wanted, and we laid our course straight for Cape Town. The northwest wind did not stay with us long, but we had made enough southing to be able to hold our course when the wind changed to the southeast again, which it did very soon. There are few gales in this part of the ocean at this season, and we were lucky enough not to get any; but for two days we drifted about in calms and light, variable airs, and there was a current or ocean drift to the northward, which set us back about a mile an hour while we held our southerly course.

Starbuck told us the story of the ship Junior while we were on that southerly course. Our crew was much impressed by the story, old as it was. Some of them—most of the white men in the crew—had heard it before, but many had not. One by one they drifted into the circle about Starbuck, drawn by the lure of a yarn being spun. They did not interrupt him, and their faces were serious as they listened. Peter was one of those who had not heard the story.

“Mutiny never pays,” he said when Starbuck had finished, “does it, mates?”

There were some muttered objections.

“No,” said Peter again. “It never pays. If a mutiny is successful it only means that the men never dare show themselves in civilized parts again. If it is unsuccessful—well, who wants to die in prison? And, for my part, I’d rather be shot than hanged. ’Twould be interesting, now, to know what became of the men who were n’t taken. They may have made some island in the South Seas, and have lived in some bodily comfort for two or three years. But ’tis much more likely that they found themselves on the beach at one port after another, and could n’t ship in anything, even if they got the chance, without fear in their hearts. Probably they died in jail, after all, or had their throats cut by Chinese or Malay pirates. You don’t happen to know, Starbuck?”

Starbuck shook his head.

“If a man is unlucky enough to find himself in a ship where there’s hard usage,” Peter went on, “the best thing he can do is to put up with it until he gets ashore again. Then he can make a call on the American consul. Even life in a South Sea island gets tedious after a while. A sailorman gets tired of lying on a mat and having his breadfruit and yams and chickens and coconuts brought to him. If he’s got the spirit of the sailor he can’t stand that very long, even if they don’t make their kings cut their throats in public every twelve years, which used to be the vile custom in Malabar. There was a shipmate of mine, thirty years back, that deserted somewhere in the South Seas, and got to one o’ these islands, and got to be king of it. He was glad to get away after two years of it—had to sneak out.”

There was clamor for the yarn. Just as Peter had cleared his throat, and was about to begin it, his watch was called.

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said. Then he turned to the others with a twinkle in his eye. “You see. Hard usage, I call it, to give a man no chance to spin a good yarn. Downright oppression, that’s what it is.”

I never heard that yarn of Peter’s.